


Lost in Space

by Contraband



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Abduction, Beating, Blood and Torture, Galra Empire, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Language Barrier, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Pain, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) Whump, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Torture, Whump, there may be future non-con and if so I will change warnings, this will eventually have some minor Sheith in the aftercare ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-23 08:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contraband/pseuds/Contraband
Summary: When the Galra abduct the Kerberos team, Shiro is separated from the others. He is placed in what seems to be a laboratory, where he is subjected to mental and physical torture in the name of experimentation and "upgrades."A big ol' whump pudding with whump cream and whump cherries on top. Will start slow, build to maximum whumping, then gently ease back down to the eventual aftercare (which will be Sheith flavored). :)





	1. Capture

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing portrayed in this fic is meant to mirror the morality / ethics / beliefs of the author, blah blah blah. It's a dark fic.  
> I will try to make the tags reflective of content as helpfully as possible as it goes on, but please do proceed with caution. First chapter doesn't get that graphic, but from here on watch out.

“Please! I’m just the pilot! I’m no threat to you!” Shiro cried out as he was roughly dragged over cool metal floor. The clawed aliens held tightly to his wrists to pull him, their sharp nails digging into his skin as their power threatened to pull his arms out of socket. He tried to give them as little weight as possible as he was dragged. “Please,” he said, more quietly, his voice growing hoarse from trying to get them to listen. “Please, I’ll comply. I’m not a threat.”

And then there was a flash of imagery, like a montage in films. But it was his own life, roiling and twisting in from of his vision. Bright, flashing lights, the feel of his body slamming to the floor, harsh, cold metal biting down on his arms, strapping him down while unfeeling yellow eyes glared down at him. He heard the sound of crying, felt hot tears stinging his eyes and, on his back as he was, they trickled down into his ears. He begged, alternating between asking what they were doing and for them to stop. 

The last thing he knew that could be called consciousness was his own strained voice saying: “Please, don’t hurt us. Please, I need to see them. Where are the others from my team?”

Time was a blur after that. At some point he passed out, because there was a black patch of warm fog between him and the somewhat guttural, growl-like speech of his captors as they stood over him, examining him. He felt sharp prods to his limbs, something cold against his chest, and then, at last, he was alone. 

He woke slowly, blinking against the harsh overhead lighting. He was on a hard, unforgiving surface, and the jolt of memories that hit him was almost instantaneous. He had been captured, along with his small crew, by aliens. Honest-to-god extraterrestrial beings. He felt himself shaking as he remembered their glowing, sharp eyes and those awful talons digging into him. How long had he been out?

The lights were a vaguely blue tint, and when he closed his eyes again, drawing in a long, uneven breath, his eyelids were colored with the blue-ish shade. His chest felt tight, unused to the air that surrounded him, and he had the unsure instinct that his ribs were bruised. He dared to open his eyes again, blinking shakily against the glare of the overheads.

Slowly, Shiro took in his surroundings. The room he was in was small and bare. Three metallic walls closed him in, the fourth a shimmering, shaking barrier of light. Tinted violet, it shielded him from the aliens of a similar hue on the other side of the wall. He could see them as he turned his head to one side. His neck screamed at the movement, but he forced himself to keep it there, watching his captors as they milled about, talking in low, purr-like tones.

There were a lot of lights on the other side of the barrier, and what looked like equipment of a technical kind. There were computer screens -- the kind you saw in sci-fi films, that hovered mid-air, translucent and operated by finger-touch. Unbidden, memories of those awful fingers of theirs cutting into his skin surfaced and he gritted his teeth. 

He wanted to sit up and look around more, to understand what he could of his situation. But something crawled in his stomach, warning him not to move. If he moved, he would be noticed by his captors, and who knew what might happen once they realized he was awake. Being unconscious was the safest thing for him, so he wouldn’t have to know what was happening. But if he had to be awake, he could at least keep that from coming to their attention.

Shiro left his eyes open only slits, glancing around and adjusting to the glare of the lights on the metallic floor. He was still in the coveralls he had been when he was captured. They had only taken away his piloting suit and equipment. He couldn’t really feel his body very much. Numbness from shock, more than likely. He had felt this way a few times before in earlier years at the Garrison. He could deal with shock. He had been trained for this.

Slowly he took in a few deep breaths, noticing that it wasn’t difficult. That was a good sign. The air in his cell wasn’t causing problems for his lungs, at least. And it was likely he hadn’t been injured anywhere damning.

When he tried to move his fingers, a sharp, hot sort of pain, almost like an electric shock, jolted through his right forearm. Shiro gasped reflexively, and then looked fearfully at the aliens outside his cage, wondering if his reaction had been observed.

None of them were looking his direction for the time being. After a few seconds during which he tried to steel his nerves, Shiro risked a glance down at his arm. The sleeve of his suit had been pushed and rolled up almost to the elbow, and there was a patch on the inside of his forearm that looked dark, reddened and almost black in places. A blue and green bruise oozed across the whole area, and his veins were visible, dark and prominent. 

He swallowed hard, wondering what was wrong with his arm. He didn’t remember them doing anything to it while he had been conscious. There wasn’t any clear wound, either, just the signs of one. Or some kind of localized infection.

Shiro couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He pushed himself into a sitting up position. His arms wobbled under the strain of holding up his own body as he moved, and when he was vertical, his head whirled with vertigo. Through the spinning sensation, he tried to take a better look at his pulsing forearm.

He ran a gentle thumb over the mark, noting that it was tender, but not unbearable by any means.

The pilot had just started a rundown of a mental checklist of possible causes for the injury when he noticed approaching movement out of the corner of his eye.

One of the purple aliens was coming over to the barrier. Shiro scuffled back unconsciously a few feet, wanting to put distance between him and this new potential threat. But the alien didn’t seem to take any note.

Its large, pointed ears swiveled towards him as the barrier wobbled, transparent but almost static-y for a moment. Then it came down and there was nothing between Shiro and this hulkingly tall, fanged, stranger.

The alien was covered in thick but short fur, and it came in longer on its jaw. Short tufts spiked out almost like whiskers from its cheeks, and its bright yellow eyes narrowed as they landed on Shiro. 

But Shiro didn’t try to hold the being’s gaze -- instead he let his own sight rest on the container in the alien’s hand. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but it was some sort of case, thin and silver, about the size of an average purse. It had a suitcase sort of handle at the top, and the alien’s large, clawed fingers barely fit through it.

The alien stepped through the barrier’s line and it went back up, zapping with purple flickers of energy that made Shiro more than a little nervous. The stranger approached him with a purposeful gait. Shiro stayed frozen still on the ground, ready to scuttle further away if needed, but unwilling to yet, in case he agitated the other.

The alien said something. Their voice was quiet -- much quieter than what he had heard from any of them so far. But it still had that guttural, growl-like sound to it that made the hair on the back of Shiro’s neck stand up. 

Shiro had no idea what to expect, but he knew this was another chance -- maybe one of the only he would have for a while, if they put him under again -- to attempt to communicate. 

“Please . . .” he said softly, careful to monitor his tone of voice as much as possible. “I think we want the same thing here. My team and I were just exploring. The moon you found us on, we were just taking some samples for research. I’m thinking you were as surprised to find us as we were to be found. We can work this out . . .”

The alien’s ears swiveled forward more as he spoke, high and alert, almost like a cat. But its face showed no obvious signs of understanding. It reached to its shoulder with one huge clawed hand and tapped at a small device strapped there for a few seconds. A light came on, red and ominous, and the alien stood over Shiro, silent. 

Shiro wanted to try saying more, but the words caught in his throat, dry and choking.

The alien stared, its glowing eyes seeming to pierce through Shiro. The pilot swallowed hard, keeping his eyes on the floor now, just past his feet. He felt numb.

Then the alien spoke again, a soft growl. There was a beep and Shiro looked up, startled by the manufactured noise. It seemed to have come from the alien’s towering shoulder, where that little device was. And then the device spoke. “Translation.”

Shiro blinked, his jaw going a little slack. The alien took a step forward, still speaking quietly to the device, and Shiro’s heart rate spiked as it approached. But he forced himself to hold still.

The device continued its work: “This is a challenge. Your language is not in the system. There are large gaps.”

The voice of the device was monotone, a little like translation tools on Earth, and Shiro would have found it funny a year ago. But right now it was simply eerie, seeing this monstrous, hulking creature, violet and covered in hair, eyes glowing, claws begging to rip into something . . . and this thing, this being, was trying to communicate with him electronically.

“Can it understand me too?” Shiro asked, his voice not sounding like his own. It was strained and wavering.

The device beeped rapidly for a few seconds, and then went quiet. “Translation,” it said again. Then it began a robotic snarling feedback that the alien cocked its head to listen to. After a slight pause, it looked directly into Shiro’s eyes, chilling him to the core, and nodded. A murmur into the device was followed by it saying in its stale, inhuman voice: “So far. It will learn more.”

One more word followed this as the giant before him crouched down. It was close enough to Shiro now that he could smell and feel its hot, almost sweet breath. “Stay,” the translator ordered coldly.

Shiro didn’t want to stay. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to retreat. But, muscles quivering, he forced himself to remain still, sitting leaned back on his arms behind him, ready to back away at a moment’s notice. The alien crouched just at his feet and leaned forward on one hand so that it was all but on top of Shiro.

With the other hand, it set down the case it had been carrying and flipped a couple of latches to open it. It began rummaging inside. Shiro wanted to keep his eyes on the creature, because this felt safest. But his attention was drawn against his will to the case from all the rattling and shuffling around the alien was doing.

There were a lot of small objects inside. Some looked metal, some closer to an almost plastic material. There were glass parts to some of them, and vials of who-knew-what. Shiro hoped his nervousness didn’t show in his features. Maybe the alien wasn’t sure what any emotions looked like on a human face. That would be fortunate.

The alien found what it was looking for and held up a thin, black, metallic looking stick. There were buttons on it and some kind of lens-looking thing. Shiro stared at it, his vision going out of focus a little, his breathing all he could concentrate on for a moment. He didn’t want to think too hard about how lost and helpless he felt.

The stick was held out toward his face and Shiro unwittingly flinched back. The alien’s hand paused, hovering in front of him.

It made some sort of clicking noise in its throat, blinked slowly, and then tilted its head slightly to speak into the translator.

“Translation.” The translator stated. Shiro waited, breathless for it to continue.

“This sees your signs. Do not move.”

Shiro wasn’t sure what ‘signs’ it meant, but he didn’t dare disobey. So he did his best to regulate his breathing and keep his nerves from tremoring too much. His teeth ground together, jaw clenched tight, as the alien waved the stick first near his eyes, then his mouth, and finally held it up gently against one ear.

The stick beeped after a moment and the alien pulled it away to look at a dim little screen on its top that Shiro hadn’t noticed before. Another clicking noise and the alien put the stick back into the case.

“What signs are you looking for?” Shiro asked. His throat felt tight, and he realized he was very thirsty. He didn’t know the last time he’d had anything to drink, and as close to tears as he felt now, he was keenly aware of the dryness and hollowness deep in his core.

The alien blinked at him again. Then he leaned forward still more, looming over Shiro, and Shiro closed his eyes unconsciously. He was shaking too much to hold it back any longer. But he opened his eyes again, just a slit, when he heard a tapping noise.

The alien was tapping his translator.

It hadn’t picked up his question, Shiro realized. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat unrelenting. And then he repeated himself, louder this time.

“Translation. . .” It spit out some of the alien language in a garbled tone.

The alien’s ears flitted back and forth as it listened and then it unmistakably smiled. Glistening fangs leered at Shiro and its eyes seemed brighter than before. It spoke into the translator. “Your life signs. I file your life signs and treat you.”

Shiro let out a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. At least he now knew that these people wanted him alive. For now, anyway. That was a good starting point.

He was trying to think what to say next, but the alien had moved on to fishing more things from its case. It was leaning back now, giving Shiro more space, and the pilot was incredibly grateful for this. He felt nearly faint.

The next items out of the box were a small tube of something and what looked like disinfectant wipes. Okay. He could deal with these, assuming they were what he thought they were.

The alien took hold of his forearm firmly and Shiro gasped quietly. His arm was tender and hot around the wound-site. But the noise was more of alarm at being touched so unexpectedly. He could feel the alien’s thick-skinned palm against him and realized how much thinner and weaker his own skin was. He must seem incredibly fragile.

The alien examined the agitated area on his arm, turning it this way and that. It made yet another clicking noise in its throat that Shiro thought now might be a sort of disapproving sound. Then it opened the tube and squeezed out some white cream onto one long-nailed finger.

Shiro took in a deep breath as the alien pressed the finger to the wound. It began to smear it over the entire area methodically. The stuff was room temperature and didn’t feel like much of anything at first. Shiro began to relax a little. But then it began to sting. Prickles ran along the already sore nerves in his arm and he drew in a sharp breath through his teeth as the skin began to burn.

Soon it was too much to attempt hiding, and he found himself trying desperately to yank his arm away. But the alien held an iron-tight grip, forcing him to stay put as still more of the cream was slathered on. The faint feeling was increasing rapidly and his arm felt like it was being jolted with electricity, or stuck in an open flame, or held under boiling water. It was hard to tell. All he knew was it hurt, it hurt, he needed to get away from it, fuck it hurt. He yanked and pulled and, when this wasn’t enough to escape, he began thrashing against the alien, kicking out at him and trying desperately to crawl away.

The alien’s grip on his wrist tightened further, and that hurt too, but against the other burning sensations that roared through his forearm, it was almost a comforting distraction. A low whimper escaped Shiro’s sore throat and he slumped hard against the cool floor. His muscles were still twitching of their own accord in a weak attempt to retreat. But any actual willpower was gone as quickly as it had flared up.

Suddenly something cold, ice-cold, and wet, pressed over the angry burning and

Shiro nearly cried out in relief. Slowly but steadily, the hateful cream was wiped away by one of those pads he had seen, and, with his cheek still resting against the cold metal floor, he watched sideways as the alien cleaned him up. It was almost tender in how gently it wiped away every trace of the stuff, and its grip was much looser around his wrist now.

Shiro’s nerves were still betraying him, making him shiver as if he were freezing. But he just stared, complacent and exhausted, at the alien’s handiwork.

Once it was cleaned off, his arm felt nothing at all. It was completely numb from the elbow down. And for that, he was thankful.

The alien put its things back into the little case, snapped it shut and stood up. It said something into the translator as it stared down at the lump that was Shiro, crumpled on the floor.

“Translation . . . I return soon with medicine and with food.”

There was a pause, but the alien didn’t turn away. Shiro managed to lift his head to look at it, wondering what else it was waiting for before leaving.

Then it said something else. “You have questions.”

Shiro tried to gather his thoughts hastily. Was he being given an opportunity at last to make sense of some of this? He shakily pushed himself back up to a sitting position and nodded, not looking directly at the creature.

“Translation . . . ask. You have one question. Ask.”

Was it saying he was only allowed to ask one thing? Shiro’s head felt too scrambled to think about what that thing should be. What he wanted to ask and what would be smartest were two very different beasts. He wanted to ask: “What do you want with me? Where is my team? Why did you hurt me? How did you hurt me? What was that stuff you put on my arm? Are you going to keep me alive? I want to live. God, don’t kill me. Please.”

A snarling, clawing panic as terrifying as the aliens had been with their sharp claws when they first seized him was ripping its way from his stomach into his lungs, stealing his breath away. He was really here, he was really trapped, and he had no say whatsoever in what happened to him. He didn’t even know if his team was alive, or if he would ever see Earth again. He didn’t know how far away he was from home now . . . he could be anywhere.

He heard a rasping, fast huffing kind of noise and realized it was his own breath as it flooded his lungs and throat with fear.

And then words came rushing out, louder than he would have thought possible. “Are you going to keep me alive?”

“. . . Translation.”

The translator growled its horrible, mechanical words to the alien and it stared down at him, expressionless.

Blood rushed in Shiro’s ears and he caught a sob before it left his throat. He had been doing so well, but as soon as the panic had been acknowledged, it was all over.

He vaguely heard the alien murmuring and then the sterile, somewhat echoey voice of the translator filled the cell.

“Translation . . . You choose. Be useful.”


	2. Testing, Testing, One Two Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro still doesn't know what to expect from these aliens, but they seem to treat the situation routinely enough. Unfortunately, the routine involves blood and still no explanations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (next chapter is when he will start getting more answers / understanding the situation better, and when things will start getting more actively violent)

Time had passed. How much, Shiro didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been more than a day. The aliens had gone in and out of the room outside his cell for a while before ultimately most of them left. Only a couple remained, one standing by the door, seemingly on guard duty, while another scrolled through endless screens of illegible script on a computer. Shiro slumped against the wall of his cell and watched the world outside, tinted in violet from the energy field separating him from it. And he waited. Waited for whatever they decided came next.

The next thing came with the return of the other aliens. Lights that had been dimmed were turned back up and chatter began anew. The work day, it seemed, had begun. At least Shiro would be able to have some sense of the passage of time if this were a regular thing. 

He sighed, keeping his eyes fixed on the beings as they moved here and there, carrying trays of things and typing at computer stations. It wasn’t working well, but he needed to keep himself distracted with their movements. Because if he let his mind idle, all he could notice was the steady clawing pangs of hunger in his belly. When did he last eat? Not since at least six hours before he’d been captured. His stomach growled quietly. It wasn’t quite to pain levels of hunger yet, but it would be soon.

Shiro swallowed, forcing his thoughts once again off of food. Today would be a day for strength of will. There was no telling when, or if, they would choose to feed him. Or what, for that matter . . . there wasn’t any guarantee their food would even be safe for him.

Sure, the alien had said it would “return soon” with medicine and food. But how long was “soon” to them? And had the translation been accurate? He could only trust, and that was a little difficult at the moment.

He didn’t know how long he had been staring at a flickering screen over the main door to the laboratory area outside the cell before he was startled back to conscious thought by the soft crackling of the barrier being switched off.

Shiro’s eyes flitted to the tall figure that stood on the other side. It was a little hard to tell, because he hadn’t been looking too closely at defining features, but he thought it was the same alien that had put that burning stuff on his arm before. He drew in a calming breath and told himself not to panic. It wasn’t carrying that metal case this time, at least.

But neither was it carrying anything else. No food or medicine. Shiro felt his heart drop into his empty stomach and tried not to let the impact of something as simple as this realization crush him. He was going to have too much to be strong for ahead of him to show weakness now.

The alien didn’t seem concerned with him at first. Instead, it stepped into the cell and the barrier went back up. It gave him a cursory glance -- Shiro tried not to make eye contact instinctively -- and then headed to the back of the room. Shiro followed its movements in the corner of his eye as it tapped a spot on the metallic wall that seemed indistinguishable from the rest of the wall to Shiro. 

But for the alien, a screen appeared and it began typing rapidly, its sharp clawed fingers click-click-clicking.

Shiro felt himself relaxing a little. So far they didn’t seem to want to hurt him. If anything, it seemed like some sort of temporary holding situation while they figured out communication better and decided what to make of his race’s expedition. He soothed himself with the thought that once everything was straightened out, he might be released.

And then another alien appeared at the barrier, jarring his attention from the first. Shiro had thought the first one was big -- frighteningly big. But this newcomer was even taller, broader-chested and with obvious muscles under tight-fitting clothing. 

Its eyes were a deep gold without irises, and as they landed on Shiro’s, a chill ran up the human’s spine. The hair on his arms stood up and he shivered a little, quickly looking down at the floor. The idea of a sentient being with eyes like that, just one solid deep, glowing color, only brought to mind demons and other horrors in nightmares. At least the other one’s eyes had been softer, less piercing. This one put off only aggression with its glare.

The first alien finished its typing, and Shiro vaguely processed it crossing the cell and walking out past the bigger one, but his eyes stayed fixed on the one he perceived as a bigger threat.

The newcomer waited for the barrier to come back up, leaving it shut inside with Shiro. And then it approached its prisoner with long, purposeful strides and Shiro instinctively shifted back in a sort of backwards crab-walk.

It bent down enough to grab his good arm and hauled him to his feet so suddenly Shiro’s breath jolted.

“What are you doing?” Shiro’s voice betrayed him as it cracked.

If this one had a translator, it wasn’t visible on its shoulder, and it made no indication it had any interest in understanding Shiro’s question. Instead, it shoved him back roughly, causing him to stagger several paces before his back hit the wall with a cold certainty. The alien followed after him in a slow, steady way, like a cat approaching prey it knows is too wounded to make any real attempt at escape.

It had something in its huge, clawed hand now. Shiro hadn’t seen where it came from. It looked like some kind of strap. The alien used its other hand to pin Shiro’s good arm to the wall.

He wanted to resist, but even if he had the courage, the alien’s grasp was bruisingly tight and he doubted he could get loose.

Something hard pressed against his arm just above where the meaty purple hand crushed into him, and he realized the strap was being laid over it. There was a sort of whizzing, clicking noise, and the strap was now digging into his arm, pushing nearly as hard as the alien had been.

But now the alien released its hold. Shiro dared to look at his arm. The strap had attached to the wall by some unseen design, almost like a magnet or velcro, and when he tried to pull away, it didn’t budge at all, instead digging at his skin with only his sleeve between for protection.

Panic was brewing again. The alien was grabbing his other arm now, and its long

sharp fingers wrapped right around where his injury was. Shiro cried out as its claw-like nails

scratched into his wound. Whatever the first one had put on it earlier wasn’t enough to ease

the pain from careless jerking around.

His right arm was yanked up to the wall at an even height with the first and a second

strap clamped over this one -- right over his sore forearm. Shiro clenched his jaw and drew

in a shaky breath through gritted teeth as he tried desperately to ignore the stinging

sharpness of it.

If the alien noticed he was hurt, it didn’t make any indication. It continued its process

with as little acknowledgement of him as if he were inanimate.

With no other choice, Shiro waited helplessly to see what would happen now. He was already feeling an ache in his legs after so long off of them, and with no food or water to help his strength.

Silent, except for its somewhat raspy breathing, the alien started tinkering with various objects that it seemed to be pulling from pockets on a utility belt. Shiro had no idea what any of the objects were, and couldn’t see very well with the alien’s big mitts in the way.

Then there was a sharp piercing jab in his thigh and Shiro gasped, flinching involuntarily, which only made the sharpness more insistent. It felt like he had been punched hard, with a knife. He looked down, the bands holding his arms gnawing at them meanly, and saw that the alien had stuck something into him . . . it didn’t look like one from his primary care physician’s office, but it was clearly some kind of medical needle. A big one.

“What . . . what is that?” Shiro asked, even though he had little hope of the alien answering him.

His leg prickled like fire and he winced as he felt whatever had been injected into him spreading through his nerve centers. It felt like the needle was still in him, but the alien was already moving onto something else.

Shiro tried to flinch away as he saw it moving something else toward his leg, but his movements were sluggish. It was like trying to move someone else’s legs with his mind. There was hardly more than a twitch before his muscles gave up. Whatever had been in that needle, it seemed to be locking up his joints with a fiery sensation and stiffening his muscles in a kind of cramping way that left him motionless. 

His heart, however, was fluttering faster and faster as he realized there wasn’t a thing he could do to protect himself. And that this was clearly the alien’s intent.

Why did he need to be given a shot to restrict his movements when he was already essentially pinned to the wall? He wanted to try again to ask questions, but his mouth would barely even open. His breathing was slow and shallow, and he felt like he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs to stay awake. His eyelids hovered threateningly close to closing and he felt the corners of his eyes stinging with tears that couldn’t even fully form.

The alien was rolling his sleeves up. Shiro felt its big, clawed fingers roughly yanking the fabric up his arms, tugging his wrists against their restraints in the process. The metal dug into his skin with the cloth pulled out from between. It was cold and sharp, and despite his body not wanting to let him react, a reflexive cry came out, more like a strangled gasp, as the sleeve of his coveralls was dragged excruciatingly over the wound on his right forearm.

It felt like ripping a bandaid off, but much, much worse, so Shiro concluded groggily that the cloth must have been sticking to the wound. Now it was pulled conveniently aside and the alien paused in whatever it had been going to do. It examined the wound, close enough to it that Shiro could feel its hot breath on his arm. The air blowing on it made it sting all the more and he made a discomforted little moan, but couldn’t bring himself to react beyond that.

Through half-lidded eyes, Shiro saw the barrier of his cell flickering. The alien turned and started talking to another one that apparently was there, though Shiro couldn’t really see it well. Everything was blurry. They growled low in their throats to one another, getting louder as the alien beside him gestured to him. It thunked a meaty fist against his leg where it had given him the shot and Shiro drew in a sharp breath as it turned and walked over to the other alien with disinterest.

Shiro’s leg throbbed as whatever he’d been injected with coursed through him and his wrists were already bitingly sore from being pressed against the cuffs that held him against the wall. Now there were two of them, and he was even more keenly aware of his helpless state.

It sounded like they were arguing over something -- short back and forth growls, getting louder and more snarly. Shiro drew in as deep of breaths as he could, trying to focus only on that, to keep himself calm, and because it felt like there was a real risk of him simply forgetting to breathe. His lungs didn’t seem capable of doing it automatically any more.

And then both of them were in front of him again, towering over him. Violet fur clouded Shiro’s vision and his breath caught in his throat as he felt a strong hand clamp down around his jaw. Sharp nails dug into the sides of his face, forcing his jaw to open slightly. He would have struggled, protested, but he felt so lethargic  . . . frozen in place, a doll to be twisted and turned however they wanted.

His mouth was forced open and something cool was place inside. Cool and round and hard, like plastic. He was vaguely aware that it was the new alien who held it, while the one who had fastened him to the wall was back to examining his arm now.

Shiro obediently kept his mouth open around the object. He had no other choice. His muscles were betraying him thanks to whatever venom was in that injection. He only felt a subtle pulsing, stinging sort of vibration through his body, without a hint of cooperation when he tried to will movement.

The plastic cut against the roof of his mouth, and for a second he was reminded of the braces they put in your mouth at the dentist when taking x-rays. It was too big to fit comfortably in his mouth but he couldn’t even try to shift it around. He was frozen.

And then there was a cold sensation washing over his mouth. Something splashed down his throat and he choked involuntarily. At least those muscles seemed still to work because he coughed and wretched helplessly around the sharp plastic cutting in his mouth, unable to move it to breathe more freely as more of whatever it was rushed into him. 

An overwhelming bitterness flooded his senses and he could feel his throat and

innards burning as the substance made its way down. Panic mounted and his eyes darted wildly from one alien to the other. They were talking again, and what was unmistakably a laugh came from one of them, low and threatening like some great beast.

His fingers were tingling and a muscle in his leg twitched automatically. He regained somewhat regular breathing, though it was difficult since his throat was tightening up from fear.

The first alien was using something cold and blunt to dig at the wound on his arm, but he barely registered it because the newest arrival was holding something much sharper to his other arm. In the corner of his vision as he slowly turned his head, he could see that it was holding what looked like a scalpel to his left arm.

“No!” He tried to say around the sharp plastic in his mouth. But all that came out was a gargled cry and suddenly his heartbeat was filling up his mouth too as he felt the metal touch down.

It was over in an instant. The alien wasted no time, simply swiping the blade over his skin like he were brushing something off of Shiro. And for a second, nothing happened. It was so fast, it took time for his blood to catch up. And the pain was late too, but it was there. Sharp, sharp, sharp, it felt like the blade was still in his skin, burning and biting. Blood welled slowly in little beads of red. Cut across the dotted line . . .

Then the dots connected, slowly but surely, to form an angry line that stung like poison. It wasn’t a small cut, though a small blade had done the job. It ran deep. Shiro could tell because it hurt deep inside his arm, not just at the skin. It throbbed and he wanted desperately to move his arm from its hold against the wall. Just a little slack to ease the pulling, tearing sensation.

The aliens had another brief exchange together and then the plastic was yanked from his mouth, causing even more scraping and bruising from how roughly it was removed. And then they both left. Just like that, they were packing up there things and going.

Shiro was left hooked to the wall, blood beginning to drip down his left arm while his right burned like fire. His mouth felt raw and it hurt to close it, hurt for his own saliva to wash over the scrapes. His throat burned too, whether from whatever had been poured down it or from trying not to cry, he didn’t know. And his legs were tremoring, leaving him hanging most of his weight from his injured arms because he could no longer support himself fully.

What was the purpose of any of this? Why did they inject something into him? What had they forced down his throat? Why were they hurting him? Why? The tears that wouldn’t finish forming earlier trickled hot down his cheeks now and he let out a strangled, exhausted cry. He still hadn’t been given the food or medicine he was promised. And if nobody else came to patch him up soon, the new slice in his arm was going to be a problem. It wouldn’t close up on its own.


	3. Method

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get bad.

His vision went in and out between the black of unconsciousness and the purple glow of his cell. He heard voices now and then, and once felt someone lifting his chin to look at him. But he couldn’t tell who it was or what they wanted, and a moment later it was back to the darkness that came with having slowly dripped more and more of his pounding blood onto the floor.

Every time his consciousness slipped away from him, he saw glowing yellow eyes behind his own closed lids. He could hear the aliens growling to each other in a tongue that was completely foreign and yet familiar, like some forgotten creature that haunted caverns in forests no one remembered having been through before. And the occasional drip, drip, drip against the cool floor below him reminded him that soon he wouldn’t process even that much.

Shiro tried to think about home. Thoughts of Matt and Sam, and where they could be flooded his brain the more that his heartbeat stuttered. He could only pray that their situations were less distressing. But it didn’t seem likely. They could be in cells right next to his and he would never know.

The first alien had said how long he lived was dependent on how useful he was. But Shiro couldn’t see anything about him hanging, nearly suspended, from the wall of his cell, bleeding out and his thoughts slurring together like mixing cement, was at all beneficial to them. He didn’t want to think how it could be. In this way, it was a blessing when at last his brain shut down, too exhausted to process any complete train of thought.

And then there was someone in front of him, lightly tapping his cheek. He blinked drowsily and gasped in a raspy breath through a dry throat. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the same alien standing in front of him now as had first checked on him. The one with the translator. He would have tried to say something, but he could tell his throat was too abused to get any intelligible noise out.

The alien moved toward his left arm, which by this point was numb except for a dull pulsing ache that matched his heartbeat, pumping blood out through the crack with sickening determination. But when the alien touched something to it, Shiro gasped, gritting his teeth and snapping back to consciousness fully. He turned his head to look and saw that the alien was wrapping up his wound with a long thin strip of cloth.

It said something and tapped the communicator that it still had on its shoulder like before. A moment later it spat out: “Translation: Your heart almost stopped trying. Now I fix your injury so that you are ready for the next team.”

Shiro tried to speak and coughed instead, clearing his throat painfully. Then he managed to say, “I need water. Please.”

The translator did its work and the alien nodded quickly. “Yes. I have brought food and water for you and bandages. I will help you feel good again first.”

The translator didn’t leave much room for interpretation of inflection or tone, but Shiro was a little unsettled by the “first” at the end, which seemed to imply something else was in store for him after he had time to recover.

The alien finished wrapping his arm, which felt more like a rug burn now that nothing was touching it but cloth. He knew it was much deeper and more dangerous, but it was a relief that it seemed to be calming down a little.

Next, he was unfastened from the wall and he slumped forward almost immediately, his legs still feeling weak. The alien stood sturdy in front of him and caught him with frightening ease, lowering him slowly to the floor like setting down a small child. It said something else as it started looking at his other, older wound. “Translation,” the translator garbled. “We know now how much blood you could lose and some about how it is.”

“You wanted to see how much blood I can lose before I die?” Shiro rasped.

The alien offered him a bottle of clear liquid and, desperately hoping it was water, Shiro accepted it and drank deeply. Sweet, clear water splashed down his throat, soothing the tight ache that was there from whatever they had given him before. He drew in a few shaky breaths before drinking more.

Meanwhile the translator repeated his question to the alien, who answered slowly and after a notable pause of deliberation. “You are owned by us now. We have to help you understand that. This way you understand it and we learn how strong you are and what things are inside you.”

Shiro swallowed the last of the water hard and coughed lightly. The alien had leaned him up against the wall, sitting up, if slouched. It felt like too much work to stay even this upright, but after his ordeal earlier, he wasn’t in a hurry to let go of what little agency he had. Especially with this alien saying things like “you are owned.”

“Why do you want to know what is inside me?” Shiro asked. His voice was coming back somewhat.

“Because our magician thinks you could be useful for improvement upgrades.”

Shiro thought about that, his mind whirring through foggy clouds of disorientation. Maybe the translator had messed up, because he couldn’t imagine the word “magician” being correct in this context. Although the whole sentence was actually a little strange.

The alien waited for a little while, kneeling beside Shiro, not saying anything more, but not doing anything either. Shiro felt a little cornered, but he tried to rationalize that this hovering was still infinitely better than anything else the alien could be doing, short of going away.

Then Shiro asked, “Where are the other two humans that were with me?”

The alien listened to the translation and its expression darkened. Its eyes narrowed, jaw setting tight, teeth leering out over its bottom lip. It didn’t answer the question, instead just shaking its head in a disapproving way. And then it took a small tin of some kind from a bag and offered it to Shiro.

“Food,” the translator said simply.

Shiro accepted the tin, glancing at the alien’s eyes for a moment before opening the container, which had a lid that swung up soundlessly. There was an unidentifiable mush inside that reminded him of mashed peas.

He wasn’t given any kind of utensil to eat with. For a few moments he just sat with it in his lap, staring at it. But hunger got the better of him. It had been a long time since he had anything to eat. He tentatively dipped his fingers into the goo and scooped a bit onto the ends.

While he started to eat, the alien spoke to him through the translator more. It was a welcome change from the silent invasive behavior of the other two before. He liked this one much better. If it could be said he liked any of them at all. It was a weird way to think of a captor.

“This food will keep you strong. It looks bad but it will help.”

Shiro’s stomach turned as he tasted the somewhat bitter sludge. He felt so weak it was almost hard to bring himself to actually eat. But he knew he needed it and even with the nausea that losing so much blood caused, his stomach growled with persistence.

“A team comes soon. They will do more tests. Hard tests.”

Shiro looked up, licking some of the food from his fingers as he took in the alien’s

expression. Though these people had odd features, it wasn’t too hard to figure out that his face was grim. “What . . . what kind of tests?” Shiro asked. He hadn’t really thought of what had happened already as tests, but he supposed it made sense. They were probably analyzing his blood right now, if they hadn’t finished hours ago. He had no idea how long he had been against the wall bleeding out.

“Pain,” the translator droned. “How can you tolerate pain and how much can you be hurt.”

Shiro swallowed hard, his food lodging heavy in his throat.

“I stay this time. You speak to me about it.”

He didn’t really know what that meant beyond face value, but he nodded bleakly and tried to get some more food down, with difficulty. If they were going to hurt him more, he really needed to keep his strength up.

“Is there more water?” Shiro asked when he had eaten all that he could stomach.

The alien blinked, looked to the empty bottle and grunted. It paused to make a note on a tablet quickly and then said: “I bring more water.” And then it waved to someone unseen outside who let the barrier down and left.

Shiro wasn’t alone long. Just long enough to set the tin of food down beside him and look around to make sure there wasn’t anything else he could be doing with himself. Then the alien was back. That meant the water source was close. He had no idea if that information was helpful to him, but he logged it anyway. Anything could be vital.

“Water,” the alien said, rather unnecessarily, as it handed him the refilled bottle. Shiro took it as a good sign that this one volunteered to talk to him even if it wasn’t needed. It seemed less removed than the others, in general, and Shiro wondered if that could help down the road.

Shiro drank long from the bottle and sighed. “Thank you,” he said, almost out of habit. He didn’t exactly owe politeness to these people, but it seemed wrong to say nothing at all. Especially when this one was treating him more kindly.

The translator growled the translation and the alien looked at him with curious glowing eyes for a moment before it nodded in acknowledgement.

The barrier behind them flickered and three more aliens entered. Shiro thought one of them was the big one that had hooked him up before. The other two he didn’t recognize at all, and was sure he would if he had seen them before, since one was a pale lavender with graying hair and a thin face, and the other was very short, and a violent shade of violet bordering on pink.

The four conversed for a short period while Shiro watched apprehensively. He clutched the water bottle close to him, too nervous to drink more, but not wanting to put it down either. These were the creatures that were going to hurt him. That’s what the nicer one had said. These aliens had come to his cell specifically to hurt him and see how much he could take.

Part of him thought the best way to handle this would be to put on a brave face and show them just how tough he could be. But if he did, what would stop them from pressing further and further? Maybe it would be better to give in quickly so that they would stop, thinking he was weak.

But if he was supposed to be useful, weakness probably wasn’t going to win him any favors. Shiro had no idea what to do or how he should prepare himself mentally. Especially when he didn’t know what exactly they had planned for him beyond “pain.”

Then the one that gave him his food and water came and knelt beside him. It said something into the translator directly and pushed a couple buttons on it. “Translation: Say something.”

Shiro stared, confused. Then he cleared his throat. “Uh . . . is something wrong with the translator?”

The translator didn’t have the normal pause. Instead, it immediately spat out a translation, starting in before Shiro had even finished his sentence.

Then the alien smiled a fang-riddled smile and said something in return, which the translator also picked up on only seconds in and followed through in entirety: “It’s getting smarter with help. It should be quick now. That will help while they are working on you.”

The other three aliens were approaching too now, though the gray-haired one hung back a ways. It had a pad that it was typing away at, while the other two had nothing in their hands. Each had big utility belts around their waist that made Shiro nervous, though, since that must be where they were keeping anything they would need while doing their “tests.”

The alien with the translator turned to the tall one and said something. The translator gave Shiro the English for it while they were talking, smoothly translating their entire exchange for his benefit. His captor must have changed the settings a little too.

“It’s ready.”

“I don’t want to clamp it to the wall again. Tell it to hold still where it is. If it doesn’t work we can hook it up.”

“The translator is telling it now.”

“Good. Let’s start then.”

Shiro listened, breath held. They thought of him as an it too. For some reason it hadn’t registered as anything negative when he thought of them as “it” in his head. He simply couldn’t tell their genders, and that combined with their furred and fanged appearance did help them drift into the “creature” category of his mind. But to hear them speak about him as an “it” was different . . . it was chilling. It felt much less like a simple “we don’t know what gender he is or what species” and more like a “this is just a lab animal” appraisal.

The kinder one was asking the tall one: “Do you want me to tell it each part of the test or only that it is for pain?”

“Yes, tell it.”

The alien turned to him and crouched again while the others began readying various

unidentifiable tools on their belts and joking with each other. “They will hurt you. You will talk to me and you will be still. You will tell me what you feel and how it feels. If you stop cooperating, then it will be worse. You must show me obedience or they will punish you. Will you?”

Shiro remembered the western shoot-em-up movies he used to watch as a kid. He remembered all the superheroes and their smarmy one-liners that were so formative growing up. How all his favorite characters never gave in when their enemies were trying to break them down. They always had something smart to say and they never backed down or showed submission. They always came out on top because they were stubborn enough to see things through. He thought about those heroes of his. And he knew in that moment that he wasn’t ready to be like them. Not today.

“I’ll try,” he whispered. The translator didn’t pick up his voice, it was so soft. But the alien seemed satisfied from his weak tone alone.


	4. Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Galra want to test Shiro's ability to take pain, but at the same time, how well he can focus and obey while he's hurting. They need to assess if he's worth their time for further experimentation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning ahead for blood / bleeding out, vivid descriptions of injuries and general cruelty.

The short alien circled around behind Shiro and Shiro followed its movements, his heart pounding so that he could feel it against his chest. It took hold of his arms, just above the wounds on each. Though it missed the injuries themselves, its claws digging into the tender skin around them still hurt and Shiro winced.

Then the one that had given him water was backing up so that the tall one could crouch beside him. It loomed in his space, studying his eyes and Shiro tried to hold its gaze, but eventually fear got the better of him and, unnerved, he averted his eyes to the floor.

The alien took hold of his shoulder in a vice-like grip with one huge hand and the other lifted up something Shiro didn’t get a look at before it touched his neck. A jolt of electricity shot through him, feeling almost like a sharp bite or the meanest bee sting possible, and he gasped, reflexively jumping away a little. But the short alien’s hold on his arms clamped him in place and he didn’t get far.

“What does it feel like?” The one with the translator asked.

Shiro drew in a sharp breath through his teeth and scowled. “It hurt.” What else did they want him to say? He wasn’t going to whine.

The stinging shock came again, this time on the other side of his neck.

Shiro shuddered as sparks of biting, nipping pain prickled down his arm on that side. When they got to the wound in his right arm, it only seemed to magnify the dull burning ache that already lived there.

Shiro’s brow knit with frustration and his teeth ground together as he tried to keep from making any noise of distress. It’s not like they didn’t know full well what their own tools did without him telling them.

The object was pressed sharp against his collarbone then and he shook as a stronger jolt coursed through his bones, making him cry out wordlessly.

“How does it hurt?” The translator mocked him.

“It . . . it shocks.” Shiro all but growled the words. The pain was making him fed up quickly. But he had to do this. Had to work with them and be useful. It was his best chance of getting out of here.

“Better,” the one who gave him water said.

And the tall one put whatever he had been using to shock Shiro away.

Only to replace it with something else.

This, this Shiro recognized. It was a blade, like the scalpel earlier. His left arm twinged with pain as if remembering of its own accord just what that had felt like.

Shiro fixed his eyes on those of the alien that had given him water and food. Who had bandaged his wound. Who was now going to allow him to get sliced up all over again. There was only so much blood he could lose before their new toy would be broken for good. 

The translator just returned his gaze, giving a calm and slow blink like a drowsy cat.

Though they had mentioned there were different parts to this series of tests, it seemed that testing his obedience took precedence. They wanted to see how cooperative he would be. Which meant they wouldn’t leave until they were satisfied with his level of subservience, or they really did hurt him enough that there was no pain left to harvest.

The hulking alien that was directly in front of him held the blade casually enough, like a pencil as it brought it to Shiro’s neck, and it was simply touching up a rough sketch. But the cold blade against Shiro’s skin made the pilot’s breath hitch in his throat right where the metal sat. He tried not to swallow against it, his eyes fixed on the alien in a silent request. Humans bled out quickly enough as it was, but much, much faster from any of the many dangerous spots there were to nick in their throats.

Nobody said anything, though the short alien seemed to be laughing behind Shiro. It was hard to tell what exactly the noise was. The tall one just kept the blade pressed firmly to his skin, not moving it, and not pressing hard enough to break through. Just hard enough to make Shiro’s pulse pound against it.

And then two things happened: the grip on his left arm loosened until it wasn’t there at all, and then that infuriating shock hit him again, this time from behind, at the back of his neck. Shiro lurched forward involuntarily and the blade at his neck pushed in, just lightly as he moved against it. Shiro gasped as the vibrating electricity rattled through him, the pierce of the knife an afterthought until he felt hot blood wetting his skin.

The short alien must have the shock tool now. Either way, they knew being startled would cause him to get cut if he wasn’t careful. Shiro let out a few steadying breaths through clenched teeth, trying not to cry out or panic as he felt that there was quite a bit of blood dripping down his neck. He wanted to wipe it away and feel the damage, but both of his arms were now clamped down tight again.

Nobody moved to check the wound or do any kind of cleanup. The knife was simply placed against his neck again, right against the cut that was already there. Shiro almost flinched away but managed to limit his movement, painfully aware of how badly it had gone last time. He shuddered with the effort of holding still as the paper-thin blade pressed teasingly against raw exposed flesh. Shiro tried not to think about his fate if anything vital had been cut.

“Good,” the translator said unexpectedly. Then it said something to the alien holding the knife, who gave a barking noise something like a laugh and replied in turn. The translator only picked up pieces of each of their words: “It’s learning to--” “--shaking but that is all.”

A surge of something close to, but distinctly other from, relief ran through Shiro. It seemed like he was doing the correct thing, forcing himself to hold still. He could do this. He had to.

He was as ready as possible for the next shock. He had the warning of the grip on his arm loosening again, although there was a definite pause between the feelings -- probably to try to catch him as off guard as they could. When the jolt hit his spine, right between his shoulder blades, he yelled and screwed his eyes shut, panting, but he didn’t flinch away. The knife still rubbed meanly against his cut and fresh blood trickled down his neck, but it didn’t cut deeper.

“Good.” The translator repeated what the alien said, but with much less enthusiasm in the tone. The alien had sounded genuinely pleased, proud even.

“Speak. Remember what I told you.” As the translator repeated this new order, the knife jabbed at one end of the cut in his neck and Shiro gasped, which he immediately regretted. When he drew in the breath, his throat bobbed against the knife and he whimpered as the cut lengthened, sharp and hot.

“Please,” Shiro managed, not wanting to speak more with the blade still hovering, ready to take advantage of any slip-up.

“I did not ask for begging,” the translator said in its monotone voice.

And the knife dug deeper. A hot little rivulet of blood was pouring down now and Shiro felt his panic rising, clawing, almost uncontrollable. Almost. He had no choice but to reign it in or things would be much worse. “It . . . it doesn’t just hurt,” Shiro said, trying to keep his throat as still as possible.

None of them said anything, though the short one behind Shiro was digging its grip in his arms in tighter, and one claw jabbed at the cut in his left arm. He managed to hold still despite the startling sharpness, but feeling its nail there did make his stomach turn violently.

“There are a lot of dangerous targets there. If you cut the wrong thing . . .” Shiro did swallow now, and instantly regretted it as the metal burned raw against exposed nerves. He was shaking uncontrollably now, his muscles betraying him as he quivered with the effort of holding so still.

“Then hold still,” the translator said after a short pause.

The aliens all chuckled at that, except for the fourth one with gray hair, which Shiro had almost forgotten, that was still standing in the back with its notepad. He noticed it standing there now because it was looking directly at him and their eyes locked for a second. Then its gaze lowered to follow the trail of red wet on Shiro’s skin.

While Shiro was distracted, the hold on his arms loosened again. He realized too late to brace, however, as the strongest jolt yet hit right in the center of his spine and shot up and down his body. He shook convulsively, lights flashing in front of his eyes as he screamed, too startled to do anything about the knife that now jabbed into his neck deeper.

Sharp, hot pain throbbed in his neck and he pulled his hand up to press desperately over the wound before the short alien behind him could regain its grip on him. Shiro crumpled forward into the bigger alien, clutching his neck and moaning quietly as blood splashed out on either side of his fingers.

It pounded almost painfully at the edges of his wound as it pumped out. It was like his veins were drying out. He knew it must be because of how much blood he had lost earlier. His veins were likely sore. Was that a thing that happened? He had never lost so much blood. Not even close.

Two of the aliens said something to each other in growling, rough voices, but the translator didn’t catch whatever they said, and Shiro wasn’t even sure which ones had spoken, other than the one he was leaning against. He felt the rumble in its chest as his head braced against it. His breathing was erratic and his heartbeat was irregular in his throat as the pain pulsed hot and burning around the wound. It hurt to hold his hand against it, but he didn’t dare take it away. He couldn’t lose much more blood or it would be all over. Part of him wanted it to be. But he was tougher than this.

Then the big alien that had been holding him up gripped him by both shoulders and sent him reeling back, shoving him to the floor so that he landed flat on his back. The breath was yanked out of Shiro’s lungs and his hand was dislodged from the wound as the shorter alien skittered out of the way. The three of them stood over him now while he lay there, coughing and shuddering, trying to keep his lifeforce inside him as he replaced his hand, even as it trickled between his fingers.

The one with the translator was moving around behind him now and he was hauled up by two strong hands under his arms. The alien held him suspended off the ground until Shiro managed to scrabble enough to get his knees under him.

No sooner had he found some kind of foundation than the big one, who was still right in front of him, pulled back its huge hand and swung in a graceful arc that crashed into Shiro’s jaw like a bag of bricks. Shiro lurched to the side, the translator’s hands anchoring him roughly from hitting the floor again. His ears rang from the blow, reverberations around his skull making him feel dizzy. Once again his hand had been knocked out of place and when he tried to move it back, his whole neck was wet and slippery with thick blood.

At his side, a sharp booted toe jabbed into his side and he jolted again, doubling forward as much as he could in the translator’s hold. He coughed and felt the wound on his neck strain with the exertion. His teeth bared, he gasped through them and tried to keep himself from falling as limp deadweight while another kick hit his gut.

Before he even had time to recover the tall alien’s fist connected with his face again, hard and fast against his brow and his left eye flashed with white as he yelled in pain, his teeth clicking over his tongue and drawing blood that filled his mouth quickly.

It took a second for his teeth to realign and he had barely drawn in a breath before the alien was swinging again. One meaty fist met the right side of his face and a second later the other was on his left, jostling him to one side and then the other like a ragdoll. And all the while those hands under his arms held him from drifting too far out of range. Shiro felt like his face was breaking, cracking and caving in from both sides. But nothing was broken. Yet. The pain simply radiated through every bone in his head, refusing to stop even after the punches were done with and he had time to recover.

“Failure,” the alien holding him said and the translator droned immediately. “You could not stay still. Failure brings pain.”

As if the slice in his throat weren’t enough to bring home that point! He could die from it, but they were more concerned with making sure he continued to have fresh things to hurt from while it bled unattended. Shiro wanted to yell, scream, cry, wriggle free and run away, even if as far as he could get was to the corner of the cell. But he was held too tightly and the blows kept coming.

Punch after hit landed on him, on his jaw, his brow, and even over the wound in his throat, strangling him mid-breath and making his lungs lock up in panic as his throat tightened and contracted from the pain itself and the pressure forcing it closed.

More kicks joined these and Shiro’s breath was unable to catch up as it was shoved from him with hard boots to his stomach and ribs. And now he was hanging from the support of the alien’s hands under him. Unable to keep himself upright on his knees, he sagged forward, his forehead resting against the leg of the tall alien in front of him, even as it leaned to box his ears from side to side. 

Shiro grunted weakly, not able to lift his head any more to look for warning before the blows landed. He felt faint and under him his legs trembled. Held up or not, he knew it couldn’t be long before he was on the floor.

As if sensing this, the blows stopped. At least temporarily, they seemed satisfied. The tall alien in front of him knelt down and leered, its teeth protruding like a sabre-toothed cat. It growled something in its language that the translator didn’t pick up, and then it spat. A great glob of spit made Shiro reflexively screw his eyes shut as it hit and trickled down from his cheekbone.

“You will now try again,” the translator said from behind him. “Do not fail. Be still and answer my questions.”

Shiro was too busy trying to pull gasps of air through his tightened, bleeding throat to acknowledge that he understood. He wasn’t sure he would be able to muster words for whatever he had to answer in a moment, either. But he needed to try if he wanted any chance of this cut being patched up before it was too late.

The smaller alien came into view in front of Shiro now and Shiro tried to control his shaking. Every muscle in him seemed to be quivering of their own will, and there was only so much he could do towards staying still. He didn’t bother trying to hold his head up, and avoided looking at the alien as it once again pulled out the shock-stick. Instead, he focused his tired eyes on the floor, wondering what it was made of. Space materials of some sort. As a little boy, he would have been so excited to think about all the new materials there were to discover out there in space. Right now all he knew was it was cold and hard.

Abruptly, a jolt of electricity snapped him to attention and he groaned with the effort of not slumping to the floor. The hands that had held him up weren’t there now. It was all on him. The pain zapped and bit against his nerves, all up and down. He couldn’t even tell where the thing had actually touched him, because it hurt like it was everywhere at once, prickling and stinging like hundreds of bees.

And through this, as Shiro’s spine twitched under his skin, he heard the far-off sounding voice of the alien with the translator. As it rumbled a baritone question, the translator gave its own higher, sterile version: “Show us that you understand. To keep from being hurt more, you must cooperate with everything the agents tell you to do from today on.”

Shiro panted with the effort of staying on his knees instead of falling face forward to the ground. When he pulled in enough air, he said weakly, “You won’t have to do this again.”

The translation was growled quietly into the alien’s ear and at last, all three of the ones close to him moved away.

Blood was congealing along Shiro’s throat and where it had pooled at his collarbone. Now that any immediate threat was at least a few feet away, he shakily reached to feel the wound again, while he used the other hand to keep himself steady on his knees. The fourth alien with the pad was watching him closely, while the other three seemed to be preparing to leave.

The barrier went down and up again and he was alone with the apparent secretary of the team.

This alien was thinner than his companions, lanky and medium-height. Closer to a human’s size, really. Its hair was lighter and its eyes were too. The gaunt dips at its cheeks made it seem much less threatening somehow. More like a half-starved woodland creature than a posturing predator looking for any brawl it could find.

When Shiro risked looking up at it, it looked back and their eyes met for an uncomfortable second. But loss of blood won out over Shiro at last and he wobbled to one side, falling with a groan.

The alien hurried over on soft-landing boots and crouched by his shoulder. It was speaking to him, but its voice sounded far off, and he couldn’t understand anyway, no doubt. But when it rested a warm hand over Shiro’s throat, its voice grew even softer and Shiro felt like he was falling, even though he was lying down. His vision was going dark and the last thing he saw was the alien’s yellow eyes, concerned and soft as they watched his.


End file.
